


Where the Heart Is

by Kroki_Refur



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-05-26
Updated: 2007-05-26
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:35:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27493576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kroki_Refur/pseuds/Kroki_Refur
Summary: Tag to All Hell Breaks Loose. Housewarming, Winchester style.
Kudos: 4





	Where the Heart Is

It’s two in the morning and they’ve just collapsed on their beds in a motel somewhere in Wyoming, too exhausted even to shower, even though Dean’s covered in blood and grime and Sam’s not much better off, when Dean says _let’s have a party_ and Sam decides his brother’s gone crazy.  
  
“What?” he asks, and even forming that one word feels like a stupid amount of effort. _Dad climbed out of hell. The Demon is dead. I was dead. Dean sold his soul for me._  
  
“A party,” says Dean, and gestures at the ceiling. They haven’t even bothered to turn the light on, but there’s enough glow from the motel sign to catch the movement.  
  
Sam thinks about this. Yeah, Dean’s said the word _party_ twice now, which means that Sam is not hallucinating and Dean is definitely insane. Shit. _I was dead_.  
  
“What kind of party?” he hazards finally, because he figures you’re supposed to humour crazy people. He thinks he heard that once. Psych 101, maybe. _Dean sold his soul for me._  
  
“Uh...” Dean pauses, shifts on the bed, his feet hanging off the end, still in mud-caked boots. “A house-warming party.”  
  
“You’re insane.” OK, so, apparently Sam’s brain isn’t quite up to filtering his thoughts right now. He hopes Dean’s psychosis isn’t the kind that has a meltdown when people state the obvious. _Sold his soul._  
  
“Dude, it’ll be awesome,” says Dean. “We can have... I don’t know, strippers and beer or something. When was the last time you went to a party?”  
  
Sam shakes his head, notices that Dean doesn’t ask when the last time they _threw_ a party was (that, at least, would be an easy question to answer). “Seriously, dude, what the fuck?” he asks, turning his head to see if he can work out what’s going on with Dean.  
  
Not much, as it turns out; Dean’s asleep.   
  
Sam stays awake for hours, _I was dead_ and _Dean sold his soul for me_ chasing each other round in his head.  
  
\----  
  
Bobby and Ellen have gone back to South Dakota to do research. Sam and Dean are supposed to be on reconnaissance in the field. What Sam’s actually doing is dozing, because apparently being dead really takes it out of you (weird, he thinks; it’s not like he was actually _doing_ anything). Thing is, usually Dean wakes him if he’s up first (which isn’t often), and Sam’s vaguely aware through the drifting curtains of sleep in his brain that that hasn’t happened, even though he thinks it’s probably pretty late. He’s just awake enough to know it’s strange, and just asleep enough not to care.  
  
The door bangs, and Sam jerks out of sleep, remembers what’s going on when his back twinges painfully ( _I was dead_ ), and Dean’s grinning and dumping a case of beer and a gigantic bag of chips on the table. Sam blinks; it’s a little early for drinking, even for Dean.  
  
“Wha-?” he asks, because he’s a pretty articulate guy in the mornings.  
  
“For the party,” says Dean. He looks like he just won the lottery.  
  
“The--” Sam shakes his head, trying to clear out the cobwebs. It hurts to sit up, but he does it anyway. “Dean, the demon army...”  
  
“Screw them,” says Dean, and disappears out the door again.  
  
By the time he gets back, Sam has managed to get himself showered and dressed, and is trying to find the laptop. Problem is, it pretty much hurts to bend his back at all, and he has no idea why he hurts more today than he did yesterday ( _the day he came back from the dead, the day Dean sold his soul_ ), but it _does_ , and it sucks ( _and he’s not dead, even though he should be_ ). Dean breezes through the door carrying a potted plant and a loaf of bread, and Sam just stares.  
  
“Dean,” he says finally, and for all his musings last night, he didn’t _really_ think Dean was crazy, but now he’s starting to wonder, “what’s that?”  
  
“Housewarming gift,” says Dean, lifting the plant and grinning. “It’s a, a...” he reads the label “poinsettia. Dude, I think I screwed a waitress called that once.”  
  
Sam sinks into the chair. “Dean,” he says, “we’re not having a housewarming party.” What the fuck is going on?  
  
Dean raises his eyebrows. “The hell we’re not. I got the beer and everything.” He drops the plant on the table in front of Sam.  
  
Sam closes his eyes. He’s never been to a housewarming party, certainly never thrown one, but he’s pretty sure that you’re supposed to have someone to invite. And, you know, a _house_. “What’s wrong with you?” he asks. _You sold your soul for me_.  
  
Dean shoots him a look, a look that says _shut up, bitch_ , and _what’s wrong with_ you _?_ and _thank God you’re not dead_. “Time to live a little, Sammy,” he says.  
  
And Sam doesn’t have the energy to argue.  
  
\----  
  
Dean cracks open the first beer at six o’clock, tosses a second to Sam. Sam’s been sleeping on and off all day, and Dean hasn’t been stopping him; he feels muzzy, tired, and he still has no idea what’s going on.  
  
“Time to get this party started,” says Dean.  
  
Sam sits up ( _back twinge; I was dead_ ), props himself against the headboard. “You’re serious,” he says.  
  
Dean’s already downed half his beer. “Congratulations on our new home,” he says, and gestures to take in the motel room with its peeling wallpaper and damp stains on the ceiling, the motel room where they’ll stay for a week at the outside. “I got you a plant,” he adds.  
  
Sam wonders if maybe he’s walked into a parallel universe. Maybe that’s what happens when you get raised from the dead ( _Dean sold his soul_ ), reality starts to get blurred around the edges. He opens the beer and takes a swallow, because at this point he has no idea what else to do.   
  
“Awesome,” says Dean. “Oh, hey,” he adds, grabbing up the bread and rummaging in his duffle, coming up with a container of rock salt. “Bread and salt,” he says. “It’s traditional.”  
  
Sam takes the bread without comment, chews slowly. He looks up to catch Dean watching him, and it’s _thank God you’re not dead_ all over again, it has been all day, all yesterday too, though Sam didn’t realise at the time. He thinks about it ( _I was dead_ ), thinks about Dean, thinks about Dean watching him die. He remembers what he felt standing by Dean’s hospital bed not once, but twice.  
  
Sam would walk through hell for Dean, but right now, he doesn’t have to. All he has to do is have a good time.  
  
“Here’s to our new home,” he says, and raises his beer, and Dean’s smile could power Los Angeles for a month.  
  
\----  
  
It’s after midnight, and Sam’s head is spinning but the pain in his back is mostly gone. He’s relaxing in a lumpy armchair listening to Dean tell some story about – marshmallows or something, or maybe martians, he’s not really listening to the words, just to the cadences of Dean’s voice. Dean pauses, and Sam opens his mouth, can’t even stop himself.  
  
“I was dead,” he says. “You sold your soul for me.”   
  
Dean’s face is blurry, but Sam sees the smile drop; all the same, the undercurrent is still there, _thank God thank God thank God_. “Yeah,” Dean says.  
  
Sam nods slowly, and just like that, the words stop spinning through his brain. They’re still there, and they still terrify him, but he can put that terror aside; he’ll deal with it tomorrow.  
  
He turns his attention to the plant, tries to focus. “It’s pretty,” he says concentrating hard on not slurring. “I think I’ll call it George.”  
  
Dean makes a startled noise, somewhere between a snort and a choke. “You are such a freak,” he says.  
  
“Says you,” Sam mutters into his beer, and when he looks up, Dean’s grinning again.  
  
\----  
  
They stay at the motel for four days, and when they leave, Sam takes the plant. It survives three weeks on the road before finally giving up the ghost. Dean doesn’t even seem to notice, but Sam buries the mass of dead vegetation at the side of the road, sneaking out in the middle of the night to do it because he really doesn’t need the kind of shit he would get from Dean if he found out. He keeps the pot, though, wrapped in clothes at the bottom of his duffle, and fifteen years later, when everything’s done, he buys a new poinsettia to fill it.


End file.
